


November Blues

by Ginkumo



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And sharing some feelings, Crime Thriller, Hurt/Comfort, Keith has a coffee problem, M/M, Multiple Personality Disorder, Partners to Lovers, Serial Killer, elements of torture, getting drunk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-10 11:44:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7843642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginkumo/pseuds/Ginkumo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their city is being ravaged by a plague, one that spreads quickly. Formless, it tears at the hearts of those who used to walk the streets without dread. Their city is being ravaged by fear.</p><p>A serial killer stalks the streets and time is running out. Lead Investigator Keith, his new partner Lance, and the rest of their mismatched team must pool their skills to stop one of the most violent criminals the city has ever known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day Zero

**Author's Note:**

> I've been mulling over the idea of a crime thriller/mystery/drama/serial killer series and finally decided, what the hell, let's do this. 
> 
> Expect lots of brooding, swearing, banter, coffee overloads, close calls, internal screaming, and a shit ton of autumn. You could probably play a drinking game with how much I describe leaves and chilly breezes. 
> 
> Enjoy!

  _The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer._

_My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body; and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame._

\- Edgar Allan Poe

* * *

Day Seven: Dusk

Thump.

Thump.

Thump…

Nothing.

….thump.

_Just… keep going…breathe…breathe…_

He struggles to keep his eyes open, tries to focus on the small pile of debris next to the feet of the chair. He struggles to focus on the raw pain emanating from his bound wrists as the rope cuts painfully into his skin. The sensation of wet blood mixing with dried blood on the side of his head causes him to shiver weakly, a slight chill on his temple when a breeze passes through a nearby window. A heavy smell of copper permeates the room. Some distant memory of field training tugs at his consciousness. Staunch the blood flow, prevent further loss, and check for shock…

He struggles to focus on what it was he needed to tell the others…they needed to know… _needed to know…_

_Oh?_

_What was I going to tell them?_

His breath hitches in his chest painfully, a fuzzy haze over everything as he swallows thickly. His mind attempts to compartmentalize the stream of thoughts flowing haphazardly through his fatigued brain.

_Colors…color…red?_

_Fire…time… not enough time._

A countdown flashes through his memory, a sudden feeling of urgency jumpstarting his too slow heartbeat.

His bound wrists sting as he pulls against his restraints. He needs to get away, needs to stop them.

_Stop them. Stop him._

Tears pool at the edges of his eyes as waves of desperation envelop any physical feelings of pain. Yet, his attempts to lift his head are met with weak muscles too exhausted to move anymore. It feels like all of his strength had seeped from his body through the various wounds littered across his chest. It was too much, all just _too much_.

He closes his eyes. The darkness was easier to bare when self-induced.

He drifts.

Images of dark hair, fleeting smiles, warm fall colors, and steam from hot cups of morning coffee flare warmth through his chilled veins.

His heart pumps once more.

The sounds of a soft chuckle, a flustered cough, and an angry growl spread heat from his fingertips, up through his arms.

His heart pumps once more.

The faint smells of greasy food-truck burritos, cheap aftershave, and fresh river water color his pale cheeks with even more warmth.

His heart pumps once more.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t give in.

With strength summoned from the very depths of his being, he forces his heavy eyelids open. He labors to pick his head up. He wills his heart to continue pumping. He straightens his back against the chair he is tied to, aching muscles be damned. The heat is there, it was weak and flickered ever so slightly, but it fuels his desire to fight.

This is not going to be the end. Well, it isn’t going to be the end _he_ wants.

His chapped lips curl into a tenuous smirk as he looks around. Escape was never really an option. He knows that. But there is still something he can do.

A painful cough wracks his lungs instead of the words he attempts to form. He feels new blood seep through the large, jagged gash across his chest and he winces as the room begins to spin.

_Not yet. Not yet._

He takes a few seconds to breathe through the nausea pooling at the pit of his stomach. He straightens his back against the chair and bites his lip against the lightheadedness.

“H-hey…” he begins. He hates how much effort it takes to push just one word out. He takes as deep a breath as he can muster before continuing. “I know… I know you’re watching.”

He waits. There is a buzz coming from somewhere in the room, the low technical whirring of equipment set up nearby. A camera. It’s a camera.

With furrowed brows in what he hopes is a glare, he tries again. “You want something from me…”

His heart skips another beat and his eyes flutter. The cold press of exhaustion cradles his limbs in a tight embrace, but the fire burning in his gut keeps it from swallowing him whole.

“I want… I want to-” He clenches his eyes shut as the realization of what he is about to say causes his chest to ache.

_I can do this. I have to do this._

“I want to make a deal.”

At first there is nothing. The buzzing of the camera continues, uninterrupted.

It doesn’t take long, however, for the door directly in front of him to slowly open inward. The rusted hinges squeak in protest and send a chill down his spine. He forces himself to look. _Oh God_ , he wants nothing more than to avoid those eyes; eyes that induce nothing but pure terror at the malice oozing from that dark, evil face.

But he clenches his jaw and keeps his eyes locked on the source of so much suffering. He finds strength in his hatred for this man, this _monster_.

“I want to make a deal,” he repeats.

The man takes a step forward, another, and another… He laughs. It starts as a soft hiccup, transitioning into a chuckle. Then it becomes a hollow, bone-shaking maniacal howl. It is a sound that carries through the warehouse like the cool evening breeze, and it strikes Lance like a whip.

_Keith…_

_I’m so sorry._

* * *

 Day Zero

Keith is a morning person.

The list of things he enjoys about life isn’t very long, in fact it’s quite sparse for a young, healthy man in his early thirties. But he’s a simple person, who indulges in simple things.

Like the way the sun colors the early morning sky with vibrant hues of red and yellow before giving way to clear blue. Or the chilly breeze that pulls at the strands of hair he has tucked behind his ear. He especially likes how _quiet_ his morning walk to the department is.

Alone with his thoughts tends to be his resting state.

He walks with both hands buried in his jacket pockets, a contemplative look coloring his expression as he takes in his surroundings.

Keith will never admit it, but he loves this city. He loves the way the buildings tower above, almost like stone guardians as they watch over the city’s population. He loves the way the city morphs into something new as each season passes. Currently, late autumn blankets the city in warm hues of reds, oranges, and browns as the leaves fight to remain affixed to their branches. The breeze plays lazily with the stray leaves and he kicks at a few of them as he walks.

Yet, the thing Keith loves the most about the city, the thing he would never, ever say out loud, is that he can think of the city as _his_ city.

As a man of few words, possessions, and hobbies, Keith genuinely enjoys how the city grants him a place to _belong_. It gives him a reason to keep going, something to work for.

Halfway into his morning commute, Keith stops at a local coffee shop where he’s considered a regular customer. Which is fine with him, because it essentially minimizes inter-personal communication when the barista knows exactly what he’s here for. He pays for the cup of black coffee with a pump of hazelnut syrup and nods in acknowledgment at the barista’s smile before leaving.

Keith stifles a yawn as he steps onto the sidewalk. He had suffered through another sleepless night, plagued by an over-active mind and not enough answers. He clutches the coffee cup a little too tightly as he restrains himself from snarling when he brings to mind the image of the latest victim.

Strangled. Marked. _Displayed._

His face twists with rage and he feels fire mix with the blood in his veins. He doesn’t notice the nervous looks other pedestrians send his way, or how the heat of the coffee stings his palm. Intense emotion boils from within before he takes a deep breath. The morning air calms his nerves somewhat, and he shifts into what he hopes is more of a neutral expression.

_Save the anger for when you catch the asshole._

He makes an effort to temper his thoughts for the rest of the walk to the station, taking hesitant sips of his coffee. He doesn’t have the energy for the well of emotions that wrack his body when he thinks of the victims, so he relaxes his posture and steps into the lobby.

“Keith!”

Keith startles and looks around, searching for the source of his name. He’s met with a friendly smile and warm eyes. A hand gestures in his direction.

Chief Takashi Shirogane had an imposing figure but an inviting personality that never failed to melt Keith’s icy façade. There was something about Shiro that inspired Keith to open up, if only a little bit.

“Morning,” a pause as Shiro takes in the bags underneath Keith’s eyes, “You look like shit.”

Keith huffs and pushes past Shiro to step into his office, where Shiro had been directing him. Keith raises an eyebrow when Shiro discreetly closes the door and stands with his back against it, a sheepish look on his face as he looks at the younger man.

“Shiro, if you’re about to invite me to another ‘team dinner’ I swear to Go-“

Shiro clears his throat and waves a gesture of dismissal at the accusation.

“No, we don’t need a repeat of what happened last time.”

Keith sighs in relief but continues to stare at Shiro with suspicion.

Shiro quirks a cautious smile. “Do you remember our recent discussion about bringing on a new team member to help with the investigation?”

Keith bristles and feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

_Oh, fuck._

“Shiro, I’ve made it very clear that I work best alone. We don’t need-“

“Yes. We do. We do need something. Anything that will give us an edge right now is welcome.”

Keith glowers at the floor but he doesn’t argue. He knows Shiro is right.

“Furthermore, the district attorney’s campaign is starting up. We’re in the spotlight more than ever and can’t afford to let this investigating stagnate. Allura is depending on us. The _city_ is depending on us.”

Keith clenches his fist and takes a sip of his coffee to prevent himself from saying any of the various remarks running through his head that would most likely be taken as insubordination.

Shiro waits for Keith to say something.

Keith avoids his gaze but relents. “So, what do you want me to do?”

Shiro beams. As one of Keith’s few friends, Shiro knows that Keith is just as passionate about justice as the rest of the force, and will do everything to fight for it. Even if it means working through his distaste for human interaction.

“I’m assigning you a partner.”

Keith groans. He knew that was coming. As lead investigator on the case, he was most knowledgeable about the details and most qualified for working with someone new.

“Hear me out, Keith. He’s not a rookie, I wouldn’t do that to you. He recently finished his tour overseas and has been looking for a way to adjust to civilian life. We met a few months ago and I’ve been, sort of vetting him. I’m convinced he’ll be an asset to our team.”

A few words stuck out to Keith, _tour, civilian, asset._

These were military terms, terms that Shiro once used when talking about his days as a marine. He furrowed his brows.

“So he was a soldier?”

Shiro nodded. “Army. He’s a ranged combat specialist, with a number of commendations. He’s well-trained in a number of stealth techniques. Techniques that might help us understand our serial killer a little more.”

Keith takes another sip of coffee while he absorbs this information. So the guy _did_ kind of sound useful. He has no intentions of saying this out loud, so he instead shrugs his shoulders and looks a little less pissed.

Shiro locks his gaze with Keith’s as he rests his hand on the doorknob. “Give him a chance.”

With that, he opens his door and disappears into the fray of the station. It gives Keith a chance to take his jacket off and run a hand through his hair.

_Shit._

It’s not long before Shiro returns with Keith’s new partner in tow. Keith thinks about how immature it would be to ignore the new guy and instead lock himself in his office and decides that would be _extremely_ immature. He sighs and makes eye contact.

It only takes Keith a few seconds to reach the conclusion that, no, this is not going to work. There is no way in hell and back that _this_ is going to work.

The new guy extends a hand in greeting and flashes a bright smile. “Nice to finally meet you, Shiro’s told me a lot about you. Name’s Lance McClain.”

Keith’s eyes flick to Shiro and he doesn’t miss that pleading look emanating from the older man that basically screams at him to play nice. He looks back to Lance’s outstretched hand and inwardly groans as he reaches out to complete the handshake.

“Keith Kogane.”

Shiro clears his throat.

“Looking forward to working with you.” Keith pushes the words through his reticent lips and tries to look like he means it.

Lance’s grip on Keith’s hand is strong, too strong for it to be categorized as a friendly greeting and Keith furrows his brows as he tries to read Lance’s expression. He’s not exactly an expert on reading emotions, but he swears he sees the grin falter, replaced with something a bit darker.

Their hands drop awkwardly to their respective sides and Shiro claps them both on the shoulder.

“Keith, why don’t you show Lance where our files are being kept for the case. He’s been briefed on most of the details but I’ll leave it to you to fill in any gaps.”

Keith nods and takes a step forward, but he’s held back by Shiro’s firm grip. Keith looks at him questioningly.

Shiro looks first at Lance, then at Keith before he speaks. “Our city is being torn apart by this monster. Let’s put our strengths together to catch this son of a bitch, okay?”

Lance and Keith nod in unison, the weight of Shiro’s words enough to cut through the tension in the room and replace it with determination.

Their city is being ravaged by a plague, one that spreads quickly. Formless, it tears at the hearts of those who used to walk the streets without dread, or glances over the shoulder. Their city is being ravaged by _fear._

-X-

It began six months ago.

The first victim had been found in her car. It was parked on the lower level of a parking garage for a full day before the police were called by a concerned, then horrified, passerby.

**Name** : Lilah Weirton

**Age** : 36

**Occupation** : corporate lawyer

**Cause of death** : strangulation

Her blue face and wide eyes mirrored the absolute terror of someone faced with inevitable death. A thick wire cut into the soft skin underneath her chin and it was wound around her neck, tied behind the headrest.

Yet, the most gruesome aspect of the scene wasn’t how her body had been held in place by the wire, or the immortal expression of fear locked in place. It wasn’t the dark tear stains leaving trails of mascara down her cheeks from when desperation clawed forth as she struggled. It was what wasn’t there, what had been _taken._

An incision had been made post-mortem. A cut, long and deep enough to allow slick fingers through to grasp at her heart, was placed just to the left on her chest. Those fingers had pulled until the arteries snapped and relinquished the still-warm heart.

Her heart had been ripped from her chest.

When Keith arrived at the scene, he had believed he was prepared for what the first responders described as a sickening display of violence and malice. His fingers didn’t tremble as he pushed aside the yellow tape marking the perimeter of the crime scene. His throat didn’t clench at the nauseated expressions of those who were working close to the car, examining the vehicle for any clues left behind by the killer.

Keith was stoic and collected, until he saw inside of her empty chest.

His feet refused to move. He clenched his fists and bit his lower lip. Anger scorched through his body and he swore. Other emotions, frustration, humiliation (this had happened on his watch, dammit!), confusion, fought for control.

In the end, he slammed a lid on all of it, and took a breath.

Now wasn’t the time. It was time to work, time to catch the bastard who had so blatantly desecrated the peace and sanctuary Keith had struggled to build up since he had joined the force.

Turning away from the victim, Keith’s eyes focused on a clash of white on dark paint. There was something scratched into the hood of the car. Cameras flashed as the CSI team logged anything that could be contrived as evidence, one investigator focusing his camera on the scratch. Keith stepped closer, peering at the hood with furrowed brows.

A hastily scrawled, jagged shape marred the paint. Keith stepped to face it from the front of the car. After a few seconds, he made out what it was.

A lopsided, contrived letter. The letter S.

-X-

 

“-eith…Keith?”

A pair of fingers snap in his face and Keith returns to himself, no longer standing in an empty parking garage. Instead, he’s outside of his office next to Lance.

Lance hums in annoyance and he motions toward Keith’s door. “It’s not going to unlock itself, and I’m too convinced you’re the type to booby-trap your own office, so you go first.”

Keith rolls his eyes at the accusation as he fishes his keys from his jacket pocket. He unlocks the door and steps inside, casually flicking the lights on. Lance makes a show of waiting until Keith is sufficiently inside his office before he joins Keith by his desk.

After draping his jacket across the back of his desk chair, Keith pushes aside various folders and stacks of paper in an attempt to locate the early case files that he thinks Lance should read through. All thoughts of how much of a bad idea this partnership is are sorted into the ‘I told you so’ bin for when it falls apart and he confronts Shiro about _never_ doing this to him again.

Lance stands with his arms wrapped across his chest, fingers dug into his biceps. He balances on the balls of his feet and takes in Keith’s office. It’s a cheap attempt at seeming casual and he knows it. Some military habits are harder to break than others. The one he doesn’t think he will ever be able to drop is his constant need to scan his surroundings, locate exits and vantage points. He digs his fingers into his biceps a little bit harder.

Keith emits a muted ‘a-ha’ and slides a few folders toward Lance.

“These are the case briefs on each victim. Names, occupation, crime scene photos. They’re a good place to start.”

Lance picks up the folders and opens the one on top. He skims over the words, eyes too distracted by the pictures. The faces of the victims peer lifelessly at him from the glossy photos and he can’t help but feel pangs of sympathy for them, for their families.

The sounds of more paper being shuffled break through the haze of emotion and Lance takes a second pile of folders from Keith’s outstretched hand.

“Those are the reports submitted by a team of criminal psychologists and profilers. They contain a number of theories on our killer, as well as some of my own thoughts.”

Lance quirks an eyebrow at Keith as he glances through the reports.

Keith shrugs in response. “Took a few training courses in criminal profiling when I was assigned this case. I’ve been trying to get into his head, but…” He shrugs again and sips at the remaining drops of his coffee. He glares at the empty cup and grumbles something about getting more before leaving Lance alone.

The notes on the killer are detailed, but somehow manage to portray a high degree of uncertainty about _everything_.

He gathers that the suspect is likely between 30 and 50 years old. Large build. Strong.

_Well that narrows it down…_

Wry thoughts aside, Lance continues skimming the notes.

Suspect seems to deviate between three primary methods of killing: stabbing, poisoning, and strangulation. It would also appear that each method is associated with a letter (note: initial??) left at the scene, as follows:

  * Z: stabbing
  * H: poisoning
  * S: strangulation



Lance looks at Keith’s hastily scrawled comment and makes a mental note to ask him about his theory.

Strange methodology could imply multiple personality disorder.  While the suspect alternates between methods of killing, the consistency in removing the victims’ heart through a single incision in the chest may belie past emotional trauma or abuse.

Lance lingers on the last sentence, before his thoughts are interrupted by Keith, two mugs of steaming coffee in his hands. He offers one to Lance, who accepts it hesitantly. Keith scoffs and returns to sorting through the paperwork on his desk while he fires up his computer.

Lance sniffs at the coffee before taking a small sip. There’s something nutty and warm about the flavor and he takes another sip, mulling on the flavor of the dark roasted coffee mixing with something else.

“I didn’t peg you for a hazelnut kind of guy.”

Keith ignores him but he narrows his eyes slightly. _What does that even mean?_

Lance tucks the folders under an arm and takes a few steps around Keith’s office. He glances through the various books Keith has stocked on a small bookshelf, most of them related to previous casework. He notices a small bonsai tree on one of the shelves, next to a collection of baseball cards and a signed glove.

As he skims through a few emails, hand cupping his chin, Keith watches Lance explore his office. He doesn’t particularly feel comfortable being on display, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he focuses on typing a few quick replies, the staccato sounds of the keyboard mingling with the latent murmurings of the station.

The silence is broken when Lance takes a seat in front of Keith’s desk, crossing his long legs and leaning back. Keith’s eye flick left to meet Lance’s, then shift back to the computer screen.

Lance looks back to the bonsai tree.

“A present? Or is that a hobby?”

“Both,” Keith mumbles through his hand, still leaning into it.

“From?”

Keith remains silent.

“Girlfriend?”

Keith gives Lance an exasperated look but he doesn’t think Lance intends to give up so he relents.

“Birthday present from Shiro. He brought it back from Japan last spring.”

Lance nods at the terse reply, satisfied. He drums his fingers on his lap, looking at Keith expectantly.

“So, what’s our strategy?”

Keith hesitates. It’s only just now hitting him that the word _our_ now applies to _his_ investigation, and he isn’t sure how to deal with it. He runs a hand through his hair and brings his mug to his lips.

“Catch the bad guy.”

-X-

One.

Two.

Three.

One.

Two.

Three.

He counts, she counts, he counts. One-two-three-one-two-three.

“Can I get you anything else, sir?”

He looks into the eyes of the waiter and sees a midnight sky, a nighttime scene speckled with twinkling lights.

Onetwothree.

He swirls the remains of his whiskey in the bottom of the glass and loses himself in the caramel and gold colors. He smiles at the waiter and holds the glass up in what almost seems like a toast.

“No, thank you. I’m all set for tonight.”

Satisfied, the waiter leaves him to his thoughts. Her thoughts, his thoughts.

There’s a band playing, just like every Tuesday night. The smooth jazzy undertones blanket the atmosphere with warm comfort and he relishes how it feels. He counts the instruments.

One.

Two.

Three.

The whiskey is gone.

He leaves a tip on the table before he leaves. His long coat flutters behind him as he takes large strides through the spinning doors of the club. He invites the biting cold of the nighttime breeze and counts his steps.

One. Two. Three.

He reaches into his coat pocket and wraps his fingers around the small knife he’s been carrying all evening. He smiles as he counts how many faces he can see right now.

Onetwothree. Onetwothree.

It’s time for the finale. It’s time for the countdown.

Three.

Two.

One.


	2. Day One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game begins.

His bouncing knees brush against the underside of his desk as he works on a math problem. His tongue sticks out against the corner of his lips as he concentrates and his pencil scratches on the paper quickly and confidently.

The voices of his classmates do not register as he focuses on his math problems, the desire to complete the assignment as quickly, yet accurately, as possible overshadowing all other senses, until a hand is placed on his shoulder after what he thinks is his name being called a few times.

“Keith, Mr. Hamilton would like to speak with you.”

Keith looks up into the smiling face of his teacher and he frowns. He knows that smile is fake and it makes him uncomfortable. He puts his pencil down and slowly stands up with a forlorn look at his work sheet. He tries not to make eye contact with the classmates who are now silent as they watch their teacher guide Keith into the hall.

They walk in silence to Mr. Hamilton’s office, who is standing outside of his door with the same forced smile his teacher gave him. Keith allows himself to be led inside, where he sits in the chair opposite Mr. Hamilton’s desk. Keith’s feet dangle a few inches above the floor and he wiggles his legs back and forth in an attempt to touch the ground.

Mr. Hamilton clears his throat.

“Keith, I hate to take you away from class but… there’s been an accident.”

Keith keeps his eyes locked on the nameplate sitting on the desk, tracing over each letter.

“Mr. Shirogane is on his way to take you home. I- I’m very sorry.”

Keith is initially confused but then what his principal is saying begins to sink in.

_Accident…home…sorry…_

His brows furrow in confusion and worry. Then, Mr. Shirogane knocks on the door and enters, his tie swinging freely with the movement as he closes the door behind him. Keith feels a little better when he sees Shiro’s dad. He could be a little scary sometimes and always seemed to be dressed for work, but he was quick to smile and would ruffle Keith’s hair whenever he came to play at Shiro’s house.

He gives Keith a slight smile and stands behind him as he greets Mr. Hamilton. They talk in low voices but Keith doesn’t absorb anything. The unsettling feeling of something being _wrong_ is eating him up inside and he fidgets with one of his shirt sleeves as he worries his bottom lip. Tears threaten to form but he swallows against them.

Then Mr. Shirogane is ruffling his hair as he presses his shoulder in a guiding motion toward the door. Keith keeps his eyes trained on the tiled floor as the two of them make their way to the parking lot. Mr. Shirogane keeps a gentle hold of Keith’s hand, which had found the older man’s after they left the principal’s office.

And then, everything is shifting and mixing into a concoction of voices and colors. Some phrases stick out- “I’m so very sorry Keith” and “the doctors are doing everything they can” and “you can stay the night here and we’ll go visit in the morning.”

Keith wakes up next to Shiro and rubs at his puffy, red eyes. He can’t remember falling asleep here or why he feels like he was crying. He gets out of bed, a lingering feeling of _wrongwrongwrong_ pangs in his chest.

As he takes each step downstairs, he hears a deep voice from the kitchen, then the _beep_ of a phone being hung up and a heavy sigh. A stair creaks and Mr. Shirogane turns to face Keith with sad, somber eyes.

“Keith, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

The heavy feeling of confusion and panic comes back and Keith doesn’t fight against the tears this time.

Before the dream ends, a news report on the deaths of a couple runs on a loop. Over and over and over again, he sees one word. _Murdered._  

-X-

Keith wakes up, bangs heavy with sweat and heart racing as he breathes through the panic and bile that chokes him. A hand grasps his chest and he closes his eyes as he focuses on slowing his pulse. After a few seconds, he cracks open an eye and glances at the clock on his nightstand.

4:29 am.

“Fuck.”

He breathes through his nose as he untangles himself from his sheets. Sleep is not going to come easy at this point and he concedes defeat for the night. Instead, he throws on a pair of running sweats and a hoodie, opting for an early morning run.

He files the dream, and the memories it brought back, away into the confines of his mind where he doesn’t have to deal with it right now. The rhythm and mindlessness of the run offer enough solace to steady his pulse and calm his racing thoughts. He gets back to his apartment about an hour later and takes a warm shower before getting ready for work.

It’s 5:50 am and he’s toweling off his damp hair with another towel wrapped haphazardly around his hips when his cell phone rings.

He’s met with Shiro’s voice. “Keith, I know it’s early but-“ Shiro’s voice sounds muffled after bring cut off, as if he had pulled the phone away from his face to address someone else.

“Sorry about that.” Shiro pauses. Keith feels trepidation creep into his chest and he grips the phone a little harder.

“There’s been another attack.”

Keith swears under his breath and drops both towels as he hastily grabs some clean clothes to change into. Shiro doesn’t need to specify _who_ did the attacking, the gravity behind Shiro’s voice is all Keith needs in order to determine that _he_ is back and has claimed another victim.

Shiro continues speaking as Keith dresses himself. “There’s…. there’s something different about it this time.”

Keith stops mid-zip as he finishes throwing on a pair of jeans. “Different?”

“I’m not sure about the details since I’ve been dealing with the press all morning, but you need to get down here. We’re at the industrial district by the wharf, I’ll text you the address and I’ll have someone posted to meet you.”

Keith emits a grunt of acknowledgement as he pulls a t-shirt over his head and is about to hang up when Shiro stops him.

“Bring Lance with you.”

_Oh, right. New partner…_

Shiro tells Keith where Lance lives and then Keith is left staring at his blank phone as his trepidation transitions to frustration.

_Fuck._

Before Keith leaves, he stands in front of a mirror. He tugs at the sleeves of his jacket and swipes at his still-damp bangs in an attempt to make himself look less like he’d been woken up by a nightmare. He frowns at the dark circles under his eyes, seemingly permanent since he’d taken on _Z_ ’s case.

He dials Lance’s number and is slightly surprised when Lance answers on the third ring.

“Keith?” Lance’s voice sounds a bit sleep-heavy but he sounds more confused than groggy.

“There’s been another victim. I’m leaving now, I’ll pick you up on the way to the scene.”

Lance is up immediately. The sounds of shifting sheets and a stifled yawn filter through to Keith as Lance quickly replies, “I’ll text you my address.”

Keith hangs up and admits to himself that, for calling someone at such an early hour, that went pretty well. He thinks about what Shiro told him, that Lance had been in the army. Irregular sleep schedules or, at the very least, being abruptly woken up, probably went with the job.

A red sedan beeps as Keith approaches and unlocks his car. He prefers the forty minute walk to the station over driving to work, so the car is generally only important for getting around to crime scenes or visits out of town. His phone buzzes with a text from Lance. Keith estimates that his apartment is about a fifteen minute drive and, fortunately, is on the way to the wharf.

Traffic is nowhere near congested and it doesn’t take Keith long to pull up to a curb outside of Lance’s apartment building. He sends Lance a quick text that he’s arrived and waits inside his car.

A few minutes later, Lance takes the steps leading from the double doors to the street quickly, his hair also damp and sticking to the back of his neck from a quick shower. He sports a dark, layered jacket over a blue V-neck and dark jeans. It’s not dressy, but practical, similar to the way Keith likes to dress.

Lance nods at Keith as he crosses the street toward his car, his breath puffing in the crisp morning air. He slides into the passenger seat smelling of fresh body wash and toothpaste.

He rubs his hands together as he greets Keith. As much as Lance loves the cool weather, he still isn’t used to it. Two years spent in the dry, hot climate of the Middle East seemed to sap his tolerance for cold. Keith reaches forward and flicks the heat on. Lance huffs in appreciation and presses his hands against a vent.

Keith pulls away from the curb and heads east, toward the wharf.

After thawing somewhat, Lance shoots a quick glance at Keith, then turns to look out of the window. His first impressions of Keith are mixed and he has yet to determine whether this is a good idea or not. He trusts Shiro, and he appreciates the position as a first step toward working in law enforcement. As difficult as it was to transition to civilian life for him, he _wants_ this. But did it have to involve such an abrasive partner?

Despite the fact that Lance barely knows Keith, he senses Keith’s commitment and passion for justice. He knows that Keith is a good detective, respected by his colleagues and highly praised by Shiro. However, Lance is a team player. He values the comradery that naturally develops when forced to face life and death situations with his squad. He knows how important it is to _trust_ others. To Lance, Keith feels like a loner, too proud to work with anyone else.

Lance sniffs and fidgets with the zipper hanging loose on his jacket.

“So, what are your thoughts about this latest attack?”

“Won’t know till we get there.”

Lance purses his lips at Keith’s terse reply.

“Okay, what are your thoughts about the case in general?”

Keith slows for a red light and looks at Lance. “You’ve read the case files.”

“Yes, but I’m trying to make this a little less ‘awkward silence-y’ and would like to hear what you think about this since, you know, you’re the expert here.”

Lance doesn’t sound angry, instead he sounds eager, yet serious.

Keith scoffs at the term ‘expert’ and his grip on the steering wheel tightens.

_An expert would have caught the bastard by now._

Keith lapses into a slideshow of victims, crime scenes, and late nights at the station as he contemplates his answer.

“I think things are about to get a lot worse. _Z_ is dramatic, he adds flair with his killings by leaving a mark on the body and taking the victims’ heart. I think he’s starved for more attention and he plans on upping his game in a bad way for us and the people of this city.” He swallows thickly and allows himself a quick glance in Lance’s direction.

“The hardest part, you know, is watching the victim’s family come in to ID the body. I know it’s unrealistic to completely stop that from happening, but I just… I want to do whatever I can to stop this.”

Lance meets Keith’s steely gaze and returns it, reflecting his determination to stop this monster. He lets the rest of the ride pass in silence, choosing instead to mull over unwanted memories of his time overseas, frowning slightly at the lack of diversion. He wanted to talk, like he could with his buddies back home, but he couldn’t think of anything to bring up.

They arrive at the wharf and Keith parks next to a series of police SUV’s and what he knows to be Shiro’s car. Flashing lights and yellow police tape clearly mark the perimeter of the scene. They forge their way through curious onlookers and a few stray journalists to meet with an officer standing guard. He nods at Keith and lifts the tape for the two of them to duck under.

They walk toward a large, industrial building, one of the few still in use. Scattered piles of metal scraps and beams line the path they take to the entrance. Lance can’t help but take note of the handful of blind spots and vantage points within the crime scene’s perimeter and he hunches his shoulders in an attempt to push those thoughts away, and instead focus on Keith’s back as they head inside.

Keith spots Shiro, identifiable by the swarm of journalists pressing against each other in order to get closer to the chief of police as he delivered an impromptu press conference.

Lance digs his hands into his pockets and sweeps his eyes over the building’s interior and the various yellow evidence markers.

“I’m going to take a quick look around, I’ll meet up with you in a few.”

Keith nods in acknowledgement and moves to stand just outside of the circle of journalists. He makes eye contact with Shiro and crosses his arms, electing to stay away from the cameras and instead wait for Shiro to dismiss the press.

As he waits, Keith scans the crowd of journalists and smirks. The high-profile nature of the case attracted the press like flies and Keith is used to them by now. It doesn’t mean he has to hate them any less. He listens as Shiro’s answers are generally vague and neutral, with an emphasis on “we’re doing everything we can’. His goal is to appease without spreading panic.

All of them refer to the killer as ‘ _Z’_ and it makes Keith bristle each time. He hates that it ascribes an identity for the killer, the monster. But the press thrives on mystery and theater, so they were never able to stop them from coming up with the serial killer’s nickname.

A flash of sandy brown hair and glasses distracts Keith from his sardonic thoughts. A particularly petite journalist is addressing Shiro with a level of confidence and accusation that strikes Keith as uncharacteristic.

“How many more victims can we expect before you finally catch the killer?”

Some journalists gasp, others drop their microphones and cameras as they look at her with incredulity. Sure, they were expected to be brash and forward, but that went a little too far.

Shiro purses his lips and looks at her with a somber expression. He isn’t angry, he is disappointed and apologetic. Keith tenses. He doesn’t want to see Shiro like this, it reminds him of the way Shiro treated him when he was younger, when his parents…

Keith senses movement next to him and is thankful for the distraction. Lance stands beside him with his arms crossed as well, watching the press conference come to a close as Shiro diplomatically addresses the bold journalist and then dismisses himself with a final statement of diligence and determination. He leans toward Keith and motions in Shiro’s direction.

“I definitely don’t envy him right now.”

Keith nods.

“Shiro is good at what he does. I don’t know how he does it, but he has a way with the media. If it were me, I’d tell them all to ‘stop breathing down my neck and let me do my damn job’.”

Lance chuckles and follows Keith as they meet up with Shiro.

The coroner is finishing up his initial analysis as he scrawls some notes while the body is being carried away inside a plastic body bag, zipped and hidden from the world’s prying eyes. The gurney’s wheels bounce loudly on a few cracks in the warehouse flooring and Keith and Lance watch it pass in silence.

Lance is pensive and tense, but he tries his best to remain relaxed. He’s no stranger to death and he tells himself that he’s in the position to help stop the killings.

The three of them stand over the outline of where the body was found, a pool of blood lies at their feet, radiating out in a number of directions. The yellow evidence markers are more concentrated here as they mark the blood and its various trails and spatters.

Forensics and CSI personnel still linger, but the spot where the body was found is clear for the three of them to stand and talk uninterrupted.

Shiro sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Press conferences always gave him a headache.

Keith looks expectantly at Shiro as he and Lance take stock of the amount of blood on the floor.

“Victim’s name is Nicholas Scott, twenty-nine years old. Coroner puts the time of death at around midnight last night. The cause of death, unsurprisingly, is blood loss from multiple stab wounds, mostly likely done with a switchblade of some kind.”

He pauses and scratches the back of his head. “He was a high school teacher. Characteristic of _Z_ , the heart was removed after he died. There was also a ‘Z’ carved into his cheek. It’s definitely our serial killer again.”

Keith feels warmth spread from his stomach to his chest as anger boils beneath his calm demeanor. He feels Lance tense in a similar reaction. The brutal act of marring the body after killing the victim is sick and fuels Keith’s desire to catch the bastard.

Shiro snaps his fingers at an officer hovering not too far away and gestures for him to join them. He hands off a clear evidence bag.

“This is what I meant by this attack being different.”

Keith accepts the bag and presses it against the white paper inside so that he can read around the smudging of blood. Lance moves to read over Keith’s shoulder.

The paper is plain, white printer paper and on it is what looks to be a typed poem or song. In capital, bold letters it reads:

SEVEN HEARTS RACING WITH FEAR,

LOUD ENOUGH FOR ME TO HEAR.

ONE, TWO, THREE,

H, S, Z,

DRINK WITH ME,

WHAT'LL IT BE?

TAP, TAP, TAP,

C'MON BOYS THAT'S A WRAP,

TICK, TICK, TICK,

GUESS, GUESS, GUESS,

MY NEXT PICK.

Keith lets his hands drop to his side as he clenches the note. His eyes are clouded with anger.

“We have to stop this.”

Lance steps in between them. “He hasn’t left a note before, has he?”

Shiro shakes his head but before he can comment, he’s addressed by an officer behind them and he dismisses himself.

Keith watches Shiro leave and then reexamines the note.

“Is this type of behavior normal for a serial killer? To suddenly alter their behavior and start leaving notes?” Lance asks.

Keith shakes his head, thinks for a moment, and then turns to look at Lance.

“He’s playing a game.”

Lance furrows his brows. “A game?”

Keith nods. “He’s daring us to stop him before he kills again.” He narrows his eyes and looks at the spot where the body used to be. “In a way, this kind of behavior is self-destructive. With more crime scenes comes more evidence and a higher chance of us finding something to lead us to him. I think… maybe he wants us to catch him? Maybe he feels like he’s lost control and so killing is his way to reassert dominance over his surroundings…”

Keith continues to mumble to himself as he thinks his theory through. Lance lets him think as he takes in the way Keith channels his initial anger into controlled frustration. He begins to understand some of the things Shiro had told him about Keith.

_“Hot-headed and short-tempered, but passionate and smart. He’s quick to react and that’s not always a bad thing on the job, but it makes it hard for him to develop a personal life.”_

_Shiro laughs._

_“In a way, I think he might be the complete opposite of your personality.”_

_Lance balks at just how that is supposed to work, but there’s a glisten in Shiro’s eyes as he places a comforting hand on Lance’s shoulder._

_“I think you’ll draw him out. You’re comfortable around others and he needs that._

_Lance trusts him._

“Lance?”

Keith is staring at him, one hand still gripping the note and the other aimed toward Lance.

“I asked if you noticed anything when we first got here.”

Lance clears his throat and nods. “Uh, yeah actually. Well, it might not mean anything, but doesn’t it seem strange how open,” he sweeps in arms out as he gestures toward the building’s interior, “this is? I talked with the foreman and this is one of the few warehouses still being used in the area. Why would he take the victim to such a visible location? If someone had been working, he wouldn’t have been able to avoid being seen.”

Keith turns and scans the space. It certainly does seem odd. Almost as if…

“I mentioned before that he is dramatic and now with this note, he’s playing even more into his delusion. Maybe this was like a… a _stage_ for him?”

They stand in silence as they let their theories and thoughts settle. After taking a quick picture with his phone, Keith hands the evidence bag off to a nearby officer and then takes out a notepad. He’s midsentence when he hears his name being called.

Lance follows Keith as they rejoin Shiro, who’s looking apologetic again.

“Keith, could you and Lance head back to the station? The victim’s family has been notified and they’re coming in for ID.”

Keith’s throat feels dry and his lips quirk into an expression of masked discomfort.

Shiro doesn’t say anything else, he knows how much Keith hates this part of the job. To Shiro, having someone who is directly related to the case nearby seemed like an additional comfort they could extend to the family members. Keith understands, but it doesn’t make the whole thing any less awful.

With tense shoulders, Keith nods and tucks his notepad away inside his jacket. Lance follows after a quick wave in Shiro’s direction.

The walk back to the car is quick and silent, Keith lost in his thoughts and Lance unable to think of anything to say to break his reverie. But then something comes to mind and he takes a chance.

“I know how it feels, to be the one who has the power to save lives but can’t seem to use it before people die.”

Keith looks at Lance as they buckle their seat belts, car idling.

“I think it’s important that you don’t let it pull you down. At the end of the day you’re the one with the gun and badge. It’s still your job to catch the son of a bitch and no one will fault you for what happens as long as you fight it.”

Keith blinks in surprise and maybe a little bit of gratitude. He knows that Lance is right and he never once felt like giving up since he’d started working on this case, but he still isn’t able to emotionlessly handle some things.

As if sensing where his thoughts are, Lance continues. “The feelings of regret or remorse aren’t bad things either. They’re what separate you from the enemy.”

“You’re right, I know you’re right. I just… I sometimes feel so responsible each time. What could I have done differently, what questions should I have asked?”

Lance’s face softens and he looks out the window as they pull away from the wharf.

“I know how that feels too.”

In an effort to make the car ride less introspective, Keith fiddles with the radio and switches the station to a random channel. Lance sits in silence as he drums his fingers on his knees, following along with the music.

It’s too soon that Keith can see the station and the bright blue lettering spelling ‘Altea Police Department’ on the brick sign out front. He parks the car and they head inside, confirming with the woman at the front desk that the victim’s family is already there.

They head to the morgue. Keith’s hand hovers over the panel on the door. His hesitation spurs Lance to offer a comforting hand on his shoulder. Lance only lightly brushes Keith’s shoulder at first, but then, when Keith doesn’t pull away, he puts a little more force into it.

Keith takes a breath and then pushes into the dimly lit room, Lance following closely behind.

The victim’s family turns out to be his girlfriend. She’s standing over the white sheet covering his body and she’s nervously biting her thumbnail. When a technician pulls back the sheet to reveal his face, she crumbles. Her quiet sobs pierce through the tense atmosphere to strike Keith and Lance with so much emotion.

They stand at the edge of the room until Lance takes a determined step forward. Keith moves to stop him but something keeps him from following through. He watches as Lance kneels in front of her. He slowly extends an arm and places a hand gently on her forearm. Her choked sobs calm just enough for her to look up through mussed bangs.

Lance smiles a soft, tender smile despite the ache in his chest.

“We’re going to stop this.”

He knows that’s probably not the most professional thing to say, but he believes it with the same fervor he applied to each assignment overseas.

The woman takes a moment to look into Lance’s bright blue eyes before she melts into him, grasping at the back of his jacket as she sobs into his chest; her tears stain his shirt. Keith hovers behind them with his arms hanging limply at his side, unsure of what to do. He lets Lance comfort the girlfriend while he nods at the technician to cover the body.

Eventually, her tears slow and her breathing evens a little. Lance helps her stand and she leans against a table. She sniffs and wipes at her eyes.

“T-thank you. I’m…I’m sorry about the makeup on your-“

She points at the smudges of mascara and foundation on Lance’s shirt and he dismisses it with a wave.

Keith takes a step forward and stands beside Lance.

“For what it’s worth, he’s right. We _are_ going to stop this.”

With tired, red eyes she locks onto his determined gaze and nods. She answers the few questions Keith asks about where she was yesterday and if she knew where Nicholas had been. Unfortunately, she’d been out of town on a business trip and only got back this morning. Then she picks up her purse and pushes past them to leave the morgue behind.

Keith lets out a shaky breath and runs a hand through his hair. Lance looks down at his shirt then pulls his jacket together. He clears his throat and shoots Keith an apologetic glance.

“I’m sorry if we aren’t supposed to say things like that.”

Keith shakes his head. “You told her what she needed to hear, it’s fine.”

Suddenly feeling a lack of caffeine, Keith leads the way to his office. With a warm cup of coffee in his hands, he sits heavily at his desk and bounces his leg while he thinks.

Lance sips at his own cup and checks his watch. It’s almost 10 am.

Keith reaches inside his jacket and pulls out his notepad. He scans through his notes and he’s halfway through his coffee when he places it on the desk and interrupts Lance, who’d been poking at the branches of his bonsai tree.

“We need to retrace his steps.”

“Who’s steps?”

“The victim’s. We need to know everything he did yesterday, who he met with and where he went.”

“Okay, where do we start?”

“He would have been at the school early yesterday, assuming he was there. Let’s check with his coworkers first and work our way forward.”

Lance finishes up his coffee as Keith contacts the school’s principal and explains the situation. They agree to meet with the principal and any coworkers close to Nicholas after school ends for the day.

Lance checks his watch again. “We have about four hours. Want to grab a late breakfast?”

Keith looks apprehensive but finally caves to the low grumble his stomach makes at the mention of food. Lance waggles his eyebrows and jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

“There’s a diner not too far away with the best breakfast quesadilla you’ll ever have. And,” he narrows his eyes dramatically, “endless refills of coffee until noon.”

Keith tries not to look too eager as he follows Lance outside.

-X-

It’s a little past two in the afternoon as they stand in front of the steps leading to the main entrance of the school building. Stray students are scattered throughout the compound, but the majority of them have left.

Lance is chatting idly about the weather and something about how being here reminds him of home.

With memories that aren’t so fond and the remnants of his nightmare this morning, Keith heads into the building where the principal is waiting for them. He extends a hand in greeting and Keith takes it.

“Investigator Keith Kogane, this is Special Investigator Lance McClain.”

“Daniel Reed. I’ve spoken with a number of Nicholas’ coworkers. Anyone who might know anything is waiting for you in my office.”

Inside, Keith and Lance are met with three nervous faces. They seem to be relatively similar in age to Nicholas and were somewhat close, considering how concern also clouds their expressions.

Keith greets them and introduces himself and Lance once again. He explains the situation before asking if they know anything that might help them retrace Nicholas’ steps.

The three of them exchange a look and then one speaks up.

“The school day was normal yesterday. We can’t think of anything that seemed out of place.”

Keith has his notepad out and is jotting down the details.

Another coworker speaks up. “We were working on a surprise bachelor’s party for him. We had plans to meet up at a club in town around six in the evening.”

Keith makes some more notes.

“So from around two to six yesterday no one saw or heard from him?”

The last coworker to speak answers this time. “I texted him around three and he replied.”

Keith nods. “What club did you meet him at?”

“Bluebell. He… he was planning on proposing to his girlfriend so we thought we would celebrate.”

“When did Nicholas leave the club?”

“Around eleven. We called him a cab, he’d been drunker than the rest of us so we sent him home first. I sent him a text about fifteen minutes after he left in the cab and he replied. I can show you, if you need to see it.”

Keith finishes writing and tucks the notepad back into his jacket.

“Thank you, that’s enough for now. If you think of anything else, please give me a call.”

With that, Keith hands out a card with his number on it and thanks the principal for his cooperation.

Lance holds the door open for Keith as they head back to the car.

As Keith puts the key into the ignition, his phone rings. Lance sits in the passenger seat while listening to Keith’s short replies.

“Shiro?... Yes, I know….Got it….Oh _great_ … Okay.”

Lance looks questioningly at Keith as he shoves his phone into a cup holder.

“Shiro says to watch out for the media, they’ve been calling the station all day and somehow got hold of Shiro’s cell number. He doesn’t want to cause any panic before we know anymore, so our primary means of communication with the public are isolated press conferences.”

Keith signals to merge into traffic. “Also, there’s a meeting tomorrow with the DA.”

Lance notices how Keith says the word ‘meeting’ and the small frown that frames it.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Meetings with the DA are…well you’ll see for yourself tomorrow because you’re coming with me.”

Lance doesn’t know enough about the DA or police politics in order to determine whether this is something he should dread or not, so he shrugs.

“I plan on heading back to my office to put together my notes and finish up some reports. Do you want me to drop you off at your place? There probably isn’t much more we can do today.”

Lance weighs his options: sit at home, order some take out, and watch reruns, or sit in on the investigation with Keith, at least trying to do something useful.

“Thanks but, I’ll stick with you. I want to do everything I can to help. Plus, I’m supposed to be learning on the job, remember? Maybe you can show me how to fill out a report.”

Keith smirks at how ironic it is that someone would be eager to do paperwork. At first he wants to argue with Lance so that he can look forward to closing his office door and working in peace, but he doesn’t.

_Dammit, Shiro._

“Are you sure? I’m usually in my office pretty late.”

Lance smirks. “I think I stopped having a bedtime when I was ten, or maybe eleven?”

Keith rolls his eyes.

“Besides, I had to remind you to eat earlier. Despite what you might think, coffee is not food.”

The indignant look on Keith’s face is enough to let Lance know that Keith in fact does believe that coffee is food.

“Alright, I’ll show you how to do some paperwork and we can talk about the meeting with the DA tomorrow.”

Lance smiles and happily turns on Keith’s radio. “I’ll introduce you to my favorite Chinese take-out. Seriously, best Szechuan chicken you’ll ever have.”

Keith makes a joke about Lance being a walking Yelp review for every restaurant in town. He would never say it out loud, but for the first time in a long time, Keith doesn’t feel like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, peering into an abyss. Instead, he allows himself to hope for something to change in his favor.

-X-

Step, step, step. Even paces, even timing.

Onetwothree.

He whistles with each step, a staccato sound escaping his lips as he takes all twelve flights of stairs down to the lobby of his apartment building.

The paint on the walls is cracking and the steps are uneven as the floor buckles in some spots. There’s a pungent smell of weed hanging in the air.

He tightens the tie around his neck and flattens the crisp, white dress shirt against his chest. His long black coat flows behind him as he steps past the open window of the landlord’s office. The landlord’s wife, an ancient woman with a smiling face, is watching the news on a small television set up on the desk.

Her voice creaks as she calls out to him.

“Be careful, hun. That crazy man is still on the loose. He killed someone else this morning.”

He smiles brightly at her concern and blows her a kiss. One, two, three.

Then he steps through the revolving doors, back to whistling with each step he takes.

It’s dusk and he relishes the cold feeling of the air on his skin. He smiles up at the city lights.

_Oh what a time to be alive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem for Z's note was written by my lovely and talented little sister <3


End file.
